


Walls (Knock Them Down)

by Prinzenhasserin



Category: Leverage
Genre: Fighting leads to fucking, M/M, Public Hand Jobs, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-07-23 05:56:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20003416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prinzenhasserin/pseuds/Prinzenhasserin
Summary: Eliot doesn't expect to meet Quinn again so soon. This time, they end their encounter by knocking other bodyparts together, which is altogether at least as enjoyable.





	Walls (Knock Them Down)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arithanas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/gifts).



> Hi Arithanas! I hope you enjoy this one. I had wanted to write you this pairing for quite some time now, and was glad for the opportunity.  
> Very many thanks to Karios who was invaluable with their help!

Eliot didn't notice the other man consciously before he felt the danger at his back and turned around to slam his assailant into the wall of the local off-brand burger joint. A bit of wall came down on top of them.

Later, Eliot would be furious with himself—but he let go of his surprise attacker briefly, only to be slammed against the wall a few feet away. The parking space had been empty when Eliot had arrived, and he'd assumed it would stay that way since the burger joint hadn't been in business since 2008 and the area was rather desolate. He should've kept more awareness of his surroundings. He blinked through the next shower of drywall—it was Sterling’s fucking hitter and didn’t that just take the cake.

"Leave this town," Eliot grunted, not wanting to spend more words than what were entirely necessary on this asshole. He hadn’t expected to stumble over Sterling’s hired goons out on an errand for his father. He’d gotten back a truck and trailer his father had given away to the wrong neighbor and was just done intimidating the local gang into keeping an eye on things. Now, these events seemed slightly more sinister with his work popping out of the woodwork.

Of course, the contrary bastard that he was, Quinn didn't move. He did seem surprised to see him, so chances were good that Sterling hadn’t expected him here either. Or perhaps Quinn had stopped working with the colossal dickhead. "No, you move," Quinn replied. The only reason the retort sounded anything but childish, was Quinn's voice. Suave with just that hint of a rasp, it conveyed a sense of determination that Eliot usually liked. Unless, of course, it conflicted with his own purpose as it did now.

It didn't take much effort to turn Quinn's bigger frame against him. A knee directly to the solar plexus gave Eliot the time to say, "Are we really going to play it like that?" He was faintly exasperated.

Quinn was built, not more than Eliot, but he knew how to use his height for maximum efficiency. The few inches Quinn had on Eliot were crucial in their kind of business.

However, Eliot wasn't one to let himself get intimidated. He stood his ground, his feet apart and his head held high. They were on an even keel most of the time, and Eliot wasn't going to retreat first. And already, Quinn was breathing hard. Eliot could feel his muscles, could feel him shifting, and there was something strangely alluring about having the larger man in his grasp.

"What are you doing here?" Quinn asked finally, and that was another question that deserved to be turned around.

Eliot studied his boots—combat wear, Swiss make, very expensive, distinctive. The boots of someone who needed to impress rich people. Eliot would be judging him for it, but he understood selling out. There was an unholy amount of money in protecting scumbags, initially why he’d fallen in with Moreau. Only who was he trying to impress out here in the middle of nowhere, Texas? Further observation revealed that Quinn was armed with a knife, a taser, and a Beretta, not nearly enough if he meant to encounter resistance. Eliot kept eyeing him, noting the slight exhaustion in the slope of his shoulders, and then rested his eyes on Mr. Quinn’s face. He was frowning, and he should be, for stumbling into one of Eliot’s solo operations without any warning. One of Quinn’s wrists was still wrapped in gauze from their last encounter only a few weeks ago. Eliot didn’t suppress the feeling of satisfaction at the sight—one of his ribs was still smarting a bit in the wrong kind of weather.

Mr. Quinn’s smug voice was a bit less smug than it was when they last met, but he had that obnoxious bodyguard swagger down pat. It was not Eliot’s style at all—he liked his swagger a little more subtle, usually. Whenever his reputation didn’t proceed him, he liked being unassuming. It gave him the edge to take down threats faster.

"I could ask you the same question," he said, and immediately Eliot heard Sophie in his mind telling him to use his body more. Quinn was all hard lines and harder muscles, and the grip Eliot had on him didn’t change any of this. Strength had always been the thing that Eliot attracted most, be it inner or outer. However, he didn’t listen to his subconscious trying to make him grift his colleague, and reversed his approach. "I’m here to retrieve a personal cache. Not that you need to know anything about that."

Quinn took in the shared tidbit with a lot of unwarranted suspicion. Eliot could see every single one of his micro-expressions from this close up. "I don’t believe anything you say," Quinn said, resolutely, despite being clearly grappled and not going anywhere. "Your crew lives on the other side of the country, why would you have personal business around here?"

Eliot laughed. "So you sprang out into the world as Sterling’s hired gun? That’s nice, I really needed to know that about you."

"Spencer, I didn’t think you would stoop to following someone you already beat down, but here we are," Quinn said. His chin jutted out.

This was a murder waiting to happen. But who would end up dead? Eliot didn’t like these stakes—yeah, he could win against Quinn as he had demonstrated but they’d both end up out-of-commission again. He’d much rather have this end in happier circumstances, perhaps even with a favor to be called in at a later date. "While I do love me a fight, I didn’t search out this one," Eliot said, trying out a warning. Not that Quinn would listen to him at this point.

"Oh yeah?" Quinn said, squirming. He visibly avoided laying a hand on his gun, which was just as well because Eliot didn’t know if he could be gentle then. Later, when there was no need to talk him down from a fight neither of them wanted to have, Eliot would appreciate that. It took a certain kind of man to admit defeat and not escalate further. "Then prove it,” he added

That was the last in a set of childish one-upmanships, a game of chicken, and it reminded Eliot a lot more of the same kind of pursuits.

"What kind of proof are you looking for? Should we kiss and make out, since a simple declaration of intent isn’t enough for you?" Eliot said, long past the point of not provoking the stupid fucker. He thought Quinn was intelligent despite working for Sterling, but now it seemed the gentleman behavior had turned out to be a simple act after all.

Except, for some reason, this reply had shocked Quinn to the point of breaking past his game face. He looked genuinely confused, staring at Eliot. And yes: Eliot could see Quinn's eyes turning dark, his pupils blowing up in arousal. The fight had gotten their blood pumping and now, with no relief, that blood was looking for different outlets. Eliot could feel a hard length pressing against his thigh that hadn't been there moments ago.

"Like you’d actually offer proof beyond your name and reputation," Quinn said, obviously trying to distract him from his boner. "Who knows who you had to blow for that to happen."

It didn’t help. Eliot was very aware of the hard-on pressing against his leg. He was getting excited himself—he didn’t often have the opportunity to fuck where he was fighting. He shifted slightly, his jeans giving him that extra bit of texture that made the shifting seem accidental. It wasn’t what he had come here for, not in the ass-end of Texas, but if it was offered by a man with a good grasp on precision strikes and how to use them, he was all-in. It wouldn’t be his first rodeo—and just as good at fighting. He smiled. "That sounds like jealousy. How about it, want me to drop on my knees?"

Quinn swallowed, not saying anything. Eliot rubbed himself closer. "I’m game if you are," he murmured. "I do a pretty good blow-job, if I do say so myself."

Quinn swallowed again, then looked around. Nobody was around. "Here?" he asked surreptitiously, and Eliot knew he had him. Eliot dropped to his knees—he had ruined them on much worse things than the concrete of a parking lot. It was worth it, if it made Quinn look that way. Excited, baffled, and very much aroused.

There was a moment where Eliot had doubts—this guy, really? Here, of all places?—But they were quickly put out of mind by the noise Quinn made when he laid a hand on his pants. The bulge there was quite impressive, even bigger than he’d estimated based on prior contact. Quinn’s pants were designer, of course, not that Eliot had expected anything else. He grinned up at him, and unbuttoned the line of carefully crafted buttons.

Quinn was wearing briefs—for more support during the more hands-on parts of their job no doubt—and Eliot brushed up softly against him. Then, he repeated the gesture with his face.

Quinn groaned, frustrated. "Do you want me to beg? Because you can forget about that, Spencer." He hooked his leg around Eliot’s neck and pulled.

"Eager much?" Eliot said, falling forward. Half of his words were muffled by the cloth of the briefs, the sensation enough to make Quinn jerk forward. Eliot held onto his hips, keeping him from becoming overwhelmed. 

"Quickly, or else I’ll get doubts about doing it in public," Quinn complained. "How are we going to—"

Eliot slid his hand inside to gently grasp Quinn’s cock —and _fuck, finally_. It felt even bigger in his hand than it looked. He was hard, and leaking, and Eliot could feel the veins pulse against his hand. His own cock throbbed in sympathy. 

While Eliot was discovering the shape of his cock, twisting his hand to spread more pre-cum for better lubrication, Quinn had stopped speaking. There was something exciting about doing this outside. He pushed down Quinn’s pants a little bit more, so he could get a good look on what he was doing.

Quinn’s cock was beautiful. Eliot salivated at the sight—he couldn’t wait to get his mouth on it, feel the texture on his tongue, the weight of it in his mouth. Although perhaps, he should save that for later. They were in public, and as much Eliot longed to take him apart, they should probably reserve that for his motel room, later, if Quinn was willing. Where he had more condoms and lube and handwipes apart from the sparse supplies in his trusty pockets. It had been too long since he’d done anything like this. 

"As much as I want to blow you right now, perhaps we should be satisfied with just this," Eliot said. "In the interest of keeping this as hygienic as possible." He licked a long stripe along his hand, and then slid his hand back over the length of Quinn’s cock. With the extra lubrication, he managed to keep up a steady rhythm. 

Quinn sighed with pleasure—Eliot couldn’t take his away from him. Quinn leaned into his hand, jolting every time Eliot brushed his thumb gently over the more sensitive area underneath the foreskin. He looked so exposed—so needy, so abandoned. With a broken sigh, Eliot pushed hard, slow, once, twice, three times more, and Quinn was shivering, was losing himself, gasped and shuddered, and came in long white strands on the parking lot. Eliot was breathing hard, wanted to follow after him, but he's not quite as close—and he wants to suck on Quinn's dick more for that promised blow job, somewhere the risk of infection isn't quite as high. "I have a motel room 5 minutes away," he blurted out, still catching his breath and trying to get his arousal under control. "What do you say about continuing this somewhere with an actual shower?"

Quinn straightened, stepped away from the wall, and for a moment Eliot thought that Quinn would leave him like this—would vanish to do his mysterious job he wasn’t going to talk about. The pang in his heart was unexpected; the feeling of loss that accompanied the thought of not seeing him spread out on a bed was disconcerting. 

Quinn smirked and looked him up and down. And then suddenly, without being aware of being moved, Eliot was the one pressed against the wall. Quinn had that look on his face—and then there was a mouth on his, and he was being kissed without any doubt to Quinn’s intention. The kiss was _filthy_ , deep, everything Eliot could have wished for. After a few minutes, Quinn let him up for air. Eliot was breathing harshly, his cock already interested in the proceedings again. "I’d also love to reciprocate some time," he said.

Eliot managed to stand on his own two feet, if barely.

Quinn’s swagger sure as hell was self-assured—he couldn’t wait to explore more of their options.


End file.
